The Song of the Dodo
by damn expensive eggs
Summary: Clyde poops on the carpet. Co-written with glow vomit. this is honestly the best thing here.


I want to do laundry. I want to do laundry so fucking badly.

But my mom will probably bitch me out for wasting water again if I do.

She doesn't understand.

Detergent is never wasted. Tide is the best. Downy's for fucking babies. I mean, downy reminds me of blankets. I'm a man. I don't need down blankets. I sleep naked with the window wide open. Tweek says the birds will peck at my cock, but it hasn't happened yet, so I'm in the clear. I always tell him, "Not everyone wants my dick. It's just you." But I'm lying when I say that. I know they do. Probably not birds, though. Like for instance, ducks have spiral dicks, so they wouldn't be impressed by straight one. Nah, just kidding. It's a little crooked. It leans to the left a little because I masturbate too much. And it's not like a duck would even come to my window. Ducks are in the fucking pond. This ain't no pond.

And there are no birds around here anyway. It's fucking winter. All the birds are dead. Especially dodo birds because they're extinct. Except for Clyde. He's in my house right now. So I don't have to worry about my dick. Clyde will defend my dick's honor. He's my brodo. Or dobro. The last of the dodos. Because he's a fucking idiot even though he likes to use the word enthralled. It's his favorite word. He learned it from me. Actually, he didn't. But I tell people he did so no one finds out that I'm actually the dumb one. That's why I have to order him around and make him do shit for me. Like ordering pizzas. The first time Clyde figured out you can order pizzas from the internet, he cried. It's kind of less satisfying because I can't make him do as much work if he doesn't have to embarrass himself on the phone. But I do like that you can track the status of your delivery. Clyde always wants them to draw a unicorn on the box. Unicorns are gay. They probably fuck each other in the ass with their horns. Wait, don't unicorns have corns, not horns.

I ask Clyde, "Hey Clyde, what's a unicorn?"

"It's a horse with one corn. Duh."

See, I told you Clyde is really smart. That's the opposite of the truth. Clyde just sounds intelligent to me if I'm high. I'm high a lot though, so it's like he's smart a lot, and then I act pretty dumb and all I want to do is sleep and watch Yo Gabba Gabba while I'm waiting for the laundry to be done so I can sleep more, only this time on the laundry. But right now, there is no fucking laundry, because nothing is dirty, so my mom would yell at me for doing it.

"I want to fucking do laundry," I whine at Clyde. "Can you go outside and roll around in mud or something, you dumb dodo."

"You're a dumb dodo!" says Clyde. "I'm gonna shit on your carpet. It'll look like mud, but it'll have my DNA."

That Clyde is a fucking genius.

"That's amazing," I say. "It'll have your entire genome. We can continue the dodo population."

Clyde nods emphatically and starts undoing his pants.

"What are you doing? Do you want me to suck you off? I told you I'm with Tweek."

And I don't even suck Tweek off. He's scared I'll bite his dick. I want Clyde to think I have an active sex life so he can be jealous. I don't care that Tweek and I don't fuck, but I bet Clyde wishes I'd fuck him. And I won't. A man doesn't cheat.

"No, I'm shitting on the carpet," says Clyde. "If I did it in the toilet, you wouldn't be able to do laundry."

"That's true," I say. "You can't put a toilet in the washing machine." Maybe I'll try someday, though, just to show him. I can't let him know about that plan though. It has to be a surprise so he'll be more impressed.

"And I had enchiladas. I have to go anyway."

Immediately, I regret the decision to allow Clyde to shit on my little blue rug. What if it smells forever even after I wash it? Then I'd have to burn it. So much for the dodo population. I need all the DNA I can get. Even the DNA embedded in the smell.

I want to stop him, but he's already squatting on the floor, and my bed feels really interesting under my butt. It's like my bed is a pillow, and my butt is a pillow too. It is just this infinite cloud of pillows within pillows, like Inception. Maybe if all pillows were like this, we wouldn't have so many problems with dreams. And dreams within dreams. Pillows within pillows is where it's at.

Also, his dick has stayed a solid .1 inch longer than mine. I have the data, still. His isn't as crooked, even though he probably masturbates more. Maybe it was curly but he straightened it out like a paper clip.

The shitting is beginning, and there is no end in sight. It's like my carpet is seeing this endless tunnel of shitting and the tunnel is clearly Clyde's buns.

"No. Stop. Please," I try.

"When taking a dump," Clyde says, "once you start, you can't stop. Like when you start a bag of chips."

"And then you have to shit," I say profoundly, "because of the chips."

"It's the Circle of Life."

I stare off into the distance for a moment. Then I remember that Clyde's still shitting on the carpet.

And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.

Well, infinitely in a state of taking a poo. I'm just watching. It's taking forever. He didn't have to do it if he was constipated. Geez.

"I'm not done yet," says Clyde.

"I didn't say you were."

"You look impatient."

"Keep taking your dump. It's enthralling."

Clyde keeps taking his dump.

I am enthralled.

It's almost like he was born for this. In a way though, he kind of was. I mean, what else is there really to life other than eating and shitting. I guess fucking is also one of the biggest parts of life. No one enjoys fucking as much as taking a good shit, though. And the reason you eat and shit is so you can stay alive to reproduce. You can't fuck if you're dead. Well, you could, but that's illegal in a lot of places. I wouldn't fuck Clyde if he were dead.

Shitting is really the most important thing, though, like it's even more important than food. Without shitting, you wouldn't have any more room to eat.

And you don't fuck and reproduce for any reason other than to pass on your genes, and I am harvesting his genes to save an entire species. It's the dodo species, so that doesn't help the human race, but it means something.

Clyde zips up his pants.

He doesn't even wipe.

He's going to get shit on his pants. They'll have to go in the laundry too. This is actually really groovy.

I rise from my bed, ready to launder. Now I have a purpose. My life can begin. Just like it will for the dodos. It's a rebirth. A renaissance. Clyde is the Virgin Mary of dodos.

Clyde stands aside from the carpet and admires the shit from afar. I approach it, ready to see what it has to offer for Adaulfo, the noble hero, my washing machine.

What Clyde had spent nearly half an hour defecating ends up being a cocoa puff. For a second, I can't find it.

"Is that it. Is that all. Clyde. Really."

"I thought it would be bigger."

"I'm disappointed. You're disappointing."

"That's not the first time I've been told."

"Ah, well." I sigh, swiping the rug off the floor. I cradle it in my arms like a precious child. A disappointing child, but still precious.

Once in the laundry room, I whip open the sweet, sweet cabinets where my library of detergents lies.

All we have is Downy.

Gay.


End file.
